Slow down, this pitiful tear, That has made, its merry mark, on my cheek, I find it to be, too earnest, And thwarting, from the sight, of someone, so vivid. You have been beautiful, to this day, A woman, as the moon, finally sees darkness. The darkness, of a life Turning, to death.
Go wishfully, to the naked forest, And grow roses, in the bleakest parts, of that place. Make me a blanket, of twigs, and deepest roots, Full of berries, alike your eyes, like gems.
I am full of remorse, to the previous day, I am a man, with many sides, to him. And only a singular face, to ever kiss.
Show this tear, to perhaps a priest. Let him shower it, with the contents From God’s realm.
Fail me once more, why don’t you? Curl upon me, with your body of silk. You have eyes Like the deepest, of green. You have longing Like the disease, that streams From the nudity, of me; Like my mind, that never seems, to heal.
A woman’s heart is to me, the cherished stone. I walk from where I sat, to her face, and bury only myself in her tears. They come out from dark eyes as sweet to taste, for she is happy!
Happiness! So alien was the word, whenever I’d writhe in a torment back in my home. I’d spent the summer nights, in the heat, while a heart beat for the torment of an addiction. A substance, or so it was named, and I blew kisses in the direction of that pain, because I knew it was enhanced by love.
She bares her beauty resplendently. This woman of mine bares herself with a heart held outward, and I make myself famous in her touch. I feel the entire world look upon us, with so much envy. They can never know love. No; not them; certainly not the world I know to be dipped in selfishness and a desire for the self.
Our hands embrace; indeed, we have embraced. We have kissed, and we have embraced. We will love; yes, we will love. We will kiss, again, and we will find the moon to be radiant and the sun to be hot.
Above her brow is a strand of hair that I blow away from sight. I see an eyebrow that I, as well, offer a kiss. And I kiss it, and kiss it evenly in distance from her twinkling eye. So much love is in my heart, and my pain has been extinguished from its dancing and ephemeral flame. It was my life, that pain, and I have waved it a farewell.
My beauty, let us dance under stars and under the awing faces. We are the world made perfect. We are the moment made without distance. We are the ones for the other. We are beloved, and musical, and enchanted.
“Why would we ever be comfortable around the politician who never lies? To be comforted, is to be lied to, and this is factual. A comfort is a lie. A comfort is a stagnation. For even the heart moves, evermore rapidly while in love. And it stops, when we are dead.
What do I mean by this? I mean, that honesty comes out of the man, who leads, when he can stoop low to see, once more, his origin. When the King had fought in the battlefield alongside his unrelenting soldiers, his cries were louder than those who died by the sword, who were their opponents. What I mean, is that honesty comes out of a man when he allows fear to be his own strength, as very much it is the weakness of his people. As very much it becomes the strength of his people, it soon becomes the weakness of himself. That is, the leader should be compassionate.
And comfort will weaken, and will tell a soldier to no longer fight. Comfort will tell a man to kneel. A woman will let a man fall to his knees before her light. Her face is now the face which a man has implored himself to stand, and then to fight, again, for her safety.
I say it once more than an honest man is a man of no shadows, but light. He is a man who people will despise, and many others will look over with admiration. That is because in a world of lies and comfort, and nothing more else to name, honesty burns. Honesty burns a hole in the shadows, and comes to people’s hearts to make them wrathful with fury.
And those under the guise of comfort will no longer see their shadows, but the light they are forced to notice. And this light, is what they attempt to reject, only to find themselves swimming in it, unable to let loose its hold.”
No sisters and no siblings, but 4 aunts, a long-time girlfriend, a close grandmother, a mother, no father, and 3 female cousins…
I think I have a bit more understanding of a woman’s Psychology than the average stupid man.
From what I’ve known of them, in contrast to a man, a man will pick apart details, while a woman will see the whole. She will see the entire picture, call it beautiful, while a man will analyze that whole, and discover errors.
This is to say that a woman will listen to honesty without being able to differ a lie from truth. This means, that a woman will hear words, and perceive them in exactness. That is to say that she will expect honesty, especially from a romantic partner, and have no choice but to place her full trust in what she has heard.
In “perceiving the whole”, she will take what has been said, and embrace it. She will not tear the image apart, without the heartbreak. It is because any heartbreak for her, can only come once truth has replaced the lie, and now she sees her own heart split in two jagged fragments.
This means, that a woman will see her own shattered heart, and be forced to see her own flesh, her own face, not for how attractive she once made it, but for its plainness. She will see ugliness, and be forced to be honest with herself, coming to question the worth of love.
How truthful (mind the pun) are such words? I must know.
Up from deprivation, I’ll begin, to raise thee, To my contemplation, I have seen, to pull thee, By my regret, I have not been, to free thee, From a slumber, from a pain, from a madness That should only, be known, to me. Why should thou feel, when I am only, to suffer? Such confuses me, Whenever I see thee, Born with tears, pasted against, thy worn cheeks, And so many tunes, that come as weeps.
Why much sorrow, when the world stands, seemingly true? Denial is but a virtue, so that pain, no longer surrounds. We are, in vain, nested, in pain, Not by darker moments, But by willingness, to express it.
Why much tears, enough to flood plains, with their wetness? I find no meaning, in their existence. I fail to see, thy complexion, As anything, but tied to water, And the great ocean, that surrounds, thy lips.
I have offered kisses, to quell thy mourning, Of what, such a future, of disaster, may bring down Upon thy quivering and aching form.
Let us, make us, miserable no longer, What will pleasure, come as, As birds, where we fly, with wings broken, like deadened gulls, That have, met a storm, to bring them down.
Let us weep no longer, No more, the feeling, of sorrow, of remembrance, to guilt, We are living, in our dreams, in our oceans When we, should be, living in arms.
Find me where wine surrounds, An airport and its buzzing engines. Find me, for me to nestle myself in your heart, Find faces to feel their praise. I will love until eternity is torn apart, We will love until paradise is what surrounds, With violet scents, And beauty’s dose of awe.
Safety is where I will find your touch, Your lips is where I will land my own. At an airport, where landings are general, And your hair, I will run a hand Through, like the running waves that guide A man through the shapes of his own mind.
Love is the feeling to our universe, Transferred in between time. I want your lips, like the redness attached To a petal from a rose; Or like the blush just above your smile, That has raised your rosy cheeks.
You’ll be my cure, will you not? My pain shall fly away from this chest of mine, As we embrace, and see that universe in eyes. You will be my cure, and no one else Shall take your place at my side. Beautiful woman, holy and true, I wield your hands like candles, And take to the world no more disgrace.
“There is no greater power than the will to release.
To differ the necessity from the convenience is the direct difference between life and death. It is the difference between the simplicity and the complexity. In life, we dwell over death, over failure. In failure, we have failed, and we have nothing else, for we are dead.
The beauty in submission is to reject all external measures of ‘diverse wealth’, because that introduces death to life. Diversity, that is, is the death. The dwelling; the constant question; and then, the confusion, makes the one without simplicity, enough to draw upon the whereabouts of darkness, into life.
In death, beauty has been buried. Recognition rots, and we soon see a person’s skeleton as any other skeleton, for it was covered in flesh when the person was alive.
We had recognized the eyes, and now as a skeleton, there are no eyes.
We had recognized the lips, and now as a skeleton, there are no lips.
Submission comes naturally to a woman, when she will reject the multiple complexities of a world that offers her much.
To a man’s eyes, the only thing he desires for a woman is to see her dressed in simplicity. As if she were in the bedroom, bared in flesh, and not overdrawn in garments so much to clothe her naked form.
And there is nothing worse in a world than to tease truth.
To be half-clothed, turns truth towards uncertainty.
To be half-clothed, makes honesty only half-way released. It makes the orgasm only half-way expended, and the love only half-way given. One should not ‘slightly agree’ or ‘neither agree nor disagree’ as it would ask for in a survey, but only either say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. That is the honesty.
Honesty is never partially given, and should be known for its answer in the immediate moment.
For a deceived world, people will continually ‘work to discover their truth’.
They will unearth that ‘buried beauty’ and disturb graves.
Metaphorically speaking, they will do this.
They will unearth history, rather than leaving the past to rot. And why are the people who enjoy ‘discovering their truth’ more prone to committing suicide? It’s for the reason of what depression does to the human. Depression is, as a definition, a focus on the past.
Honesty is immediate and offered by Nature upon birth.
And soon, one will carry that truth until they die.
For submission, honesty and simplicity are very much important aspects to what ‘weakness’ stands for; and that is, to be vulnerable when one should never hold a statement back.
One is always vulnerable when conveying truth.
In tears, or in rage, that is when a person releases.”
Cling upon me, For your immediate comfort. You have wept with a shivering form, And eyes that obey all contention. A face that needs no bliss, as mine Or your own, for the coming deprivation.
Disease me, your wounds of many fields. Kiss me, O woman of much gathered, Suffer not, when the world comes tumbling Upon our bosoms, so wide and heavy. We are but deformed infants, Birthed without care.
When we scream, who will hear us? When we strike, who will we hit? When we bleed, who catches such drops? When we feel, who feels us?
We are so much the crime, the fear for a world, That turns inside out, to see itself. We are the parasites for them, As we care for them.
Oh, beauty. You have oceans too deep for this world, And eyes that would strangle its own veins. Deny me all, so that I may see me maddened, Make me quiver as you do, So that I may break your fall.
“The artist has a singular vision of reality. Such a vision provokes reality to move. Although, the artist has a liking to pick up reality to perhaps drag it. As well, the artist has a liking to make reality writhe in pain, or echo some cry of thrill. Nothing prevents the artist from showing movement.
And for what purpose does this movement conceive its own definition? That definition is the purpose of evil. Art is not evil. It is merely an interpretation of life. Of all what stays inside life, it is the birth of potential. Had Hitler’s mother known of what evil she’d birth? Had Caesar’s mother known of what power she held in her womb?
Art does not convey love. It conveys truth. It conveys the reality made into truth. For reality is nothing more than a stagnant image, and perhaps the blank canvas, before the artist makes life from it. It is the empty womb, the darkened hallway, before there is a child nestled within, or torches lit upon the walls.
Love is a stagnation. Death is a stagnation. And the artist does not convey these things, for these things do not display movement. We are contented in these two things. We want for no more, when either in love or dead, or close to death. For love, we willingly submit. For death, we are forced to submit. And for both, life has no hold upon us.
What is life? It has been said to hold the definition of ‘worth’ or ‘value’ and such things are only ever measured through age. The ‘existence of time’ becomes an existence, when we are able to see life for its truth.
When we speak of evil, we speak of that life, and its discontinuance. We speak of the constant discontent. For a human can only ever be contented when willingly content, or when in love, or when forced to be content, or when near death.
Truth is a middling. Love is a higher. Death is a lower.
We, as humans, are always middling, no matter our ambitions.
It is because when love interferes with the dictator, he is no longer a dictator. He soon renounces his ambitions, and settles in with a wife, while people still pound on his door to murder him.”
“As anyone who holds even the slightest understanding of Psychology, the human brain is incapable of holding two primary focuses. Rather, there is always a primary and a secondary focus. Should quality be the primary focus, then quantity will become the secondary focus. Should quantity be the primary focus, then quality will become the secondary focus. This is to say that should the artist never seek fame, then they will wield their brush like a conductor wields a baton to command the orchestra. This is to also say that should the artist seek fame, then the artist will never tire of taking multiple dives into association and labeling, all-the-while believing repetition to better suit the work he’s creating. Such a former scenario of quality creates that which is built to last. Such a latter scenario of quantity creates that which crumbles when a species comes to deny the existence of time.”